Allegria
by scarletphlame
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been blind his entire life. Also, he apparently solves crimes with his best friend, John Watson. But he's been told that it wasn't always this way. Johnlock. In which Sherlock deletes everything and John has to help him remember. (repost)
1. Chapter 1

"This is stupid. This is pointless, dull, predictable, obvious. What am I even here for? I could be back at 221B, drinking John's frankly disgusting tea and staring at the wall, bored out of my mind. This is ridiculous. You're ridiculous," Sherlock said.

Well, sort of, anyway.

It was all that John heard nowadays; things that Sherlock did not say, but said. What he'd really uttered was something along the lines of, "Anderson, I have reason to suspect your parents are siblings."

John sighed and stuffed his hands in his pockets, Anderson's response muffled from the corners of his mind. He puffed out hot air, watched it fog and sink slowly, then vanish.

"–not like you have a heart to begin with," Anderson was saying. "You're a bastard, you know that? I hope you're happy with knowing how _miserable_ you make everyone," he sneered.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. It was something truly remarkable when he didn't. Awkward silence buzzed around their ears for a few moments, before Sherlock muttered something along the lines of, "–wasting my time… things to do." It came out as a mumble, one that neither Anderson nor John could understand. But before the other man could call him out on it, Sherlock was nothing more than a plume of dark coat, flapping as he turned rapidly.

John hurried to catch up with him, jogging even when he caught up with the curly-haired detective. "That was nice."

Sherlock didn't respond to that. Not with an answer, at least. "Anderson is insufferable in his best moments. I have complete faith in him."

There was a slight awkward pause, if only less noisy than the last.

"To spoil a perfectly good evening," Sherlock added. John took a moment to glance at him. He was thinking. No, not thinking, _brooding_. John hadn't known the difference between the two until he'd read it in a book and thought about it, _really_ thought about it.

He wanted to ask Sherlock what Anderson had said, exactly, that had bothered him so much. It was right there, right on his lips, not quite in sight but maybe better left unsaid.

He never got a chance to mention it, however, once they both ducked under the police tape. "Good evening, Lestrade."

"Sherlock, you've got Anderson in one hell of a rage. Go on, tell me. What'd you do this time?" Lestrade was grinning. Somehow he found the whole situation funny.

Sherlock scowled. "Detective Inspector, I do hope you realize I can't be bothered by social…mm, 'niceties', and, as such, I refuse to answer such an unavailing question, given that my answer will only disappoint you further. However, if you'd like to make small talk about an unappealing individual such as Anderson, there is always the newest member of the taskforce; eager to impress and move up the ranks, which she intends to do by sleeping with the senior officers. She's certainly in your league and would be an improvement from your wife, who certainly only remains with you for monetary gain. Then again, she has been cheating with countless amounts of different men in your years of marriage, which I'm rather astounded you've missed, being a so-called 'Detective Inspector'."

It was, very easily, the most unpleasant thing Sherlock had ever said to anyone.

"Jesus," John breathed.

Lestrade's face was blank. At least, it was to John. He was certain that Sherlock was seeing right through the mask that was Lestrade's expression. When he finally spoke, it was almost entirely what John was expecting him to say. Almost.

"Go, then." He gestured with his hands. "Leave." Sherlock moved to say something, but Lestrade waved him off. "No, I'm serious. Get the hell out of here–Sherlock, you can't do that. You can't do that to people. Do you even know that?" For a moment, Lestrade almost sounded robotic. And soft. His voice was so soft.

"I've–"

"No, don't start, Sherlock. I know what you're going to say. You've taken years to tell me. Wish you'd said from the start, that you hated me. Would've made things a helluva lot easier." Lestrade was moving now, but moving like a puppet with all the strings cut from it, only with rigid, straight posture and instead of stage voice with soft words. "Just get out. Now."

Sherlock didn't try to say anything to that. He simply turned and strode off. John stood, rooted to the spot, unsure of whether or not to stay and say something, anything to Lestrade, anything at all to make it better. He was a doctor. That was what doctors were supposed to do.

Lestrade scratched the back of his neck. He looked upset, really upset now, watching Sherlock turn and retreat the other way. "I'd tell you to go, but you're going to follow him anyway."

And that was exactly what John did. In fact, it was only moments later, when he'd caught up to Sherlock, that he realized he'd gone and left the crime scene... and, bollocks, when had that happened?

"I hope you regret doing that, Sherlock, because that... _that_... was bad," he hissed.

Sherlock stared straight ahead. He was not looking at anything nor everything. "If it's any consolation, I have many regrets."

"Then why..." John cleared his throat and shook his head, as if to clear his muddled thoughts. "then why do you do those things, Sherlock?"

Sherlock did not look at him. "I've come to realize that people do many things they regret."

"And how is that?" John challenged.

Sherlock began to walk faster.

"Sherlock-" John began.

"John, I am in love with you," Sherlock blurted, and the entire world stopped turning for a second. John reckoned he looked like a fish, not in the sense that he was gaping like one but in the sense that he felt as if someone had plucked him clean off the earth and dumped him into the ocean. He couldn't even... begin to comprehend what Sherlock had just said.

_"What?"_

"Pay attention," Sherlock grumbled. "I am in love with you. In fact, let's kiss, as it's clear you're quite attracted to me as well and we're both quite compatible."

_"What?"_ John gasped, and then the last sentence registered. _"What?"_ he sputtered. And then, there was Sherlock, leaning in for it, long arms wrapping around his torso for a sort-of hug. John jerked backwards, but there were Sherlock's hands, locking him in a clumsy embrace.

He turned his face at the last moment to whisper into John's ear. "There is someone following us." And then they were standing still again, the warm breath that had been in John's ear a second ago gone and the world turning again, if only very quickly, buckling under John as he tried to balance.

_"What?"_ he repeated, but this time, he sounded flat.**  
**

"Pay _attention_," Sherlock whispered harshly. He receded backwards, John's face burning red.

"Um," John started.

Sherlock turned and began to walk. John stumbled after him, mind a whirlwind of thoughts. _Of course. He doesn't love me. No, that's fine. He doesn't need to love me. I don't want him to love me. What we have, as friends, that's good. He just caught me by surprise, that's all. _John straightened his shirt and paced his breathing until it evened out.

"Sherlock–" it came out slightly garbled, so he cleared his throat and began again. "Sherlock." The detective's back was to him. "_Sherlock_."

"Yes?" Sherlock was almost _skipping_. Just an act. Right.

He glanced around nervously. How long had they been following them? "Uh... How long has this been going on between us?" He eyed his surroundings, hoping Sherlock would get the message.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure. Perhaps it has been a while... but I only came to awareness of it at the crime scene."

_Since the crime scene._ Right. Probably, anyway. John blew out a shaky breath. "Want to take this back to 221B? Only if that's what you want, of course." _Can we make it back? What do they want?_

Sherlock's gaze flicked ahead. "I'm not sure," he muttered. "I don't know what I want from you."

John stared at the pavement. "All right," he breathed. "Christ. Okay. What do we do?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know, John. I don't know. I don't know." He repeated the sentence, once, twice, a mantra, like saying it again and again would help him come to comprehend it.

The hairs on the back of John's neck turned up and he abruptly stopped walking. Sherlock stopped too.

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John. John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John. A shadow passed behind the both of them. They kept on looking, and looking, and looking, until their eyes hurt, and then they grabbed at each other, and then grabbed at the needles in their necks, the whole time the world fading, and then they saw blackness and looked at nothing.

_Nothing_.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I'm a fourteen year old fangirl, not a doctor. Apologies if I got anything wrong. I did some research on the topics covered in this chapter, but I'm pretty certain that there's no article anywhere that deals with this kind of stuff...

Hope you enjoy. ^^

* * *

John woke up in a not-so-very-pleasant place.

True, he'd woken in many not-so-very-pleasant places in his life. Being in the Army did that to you. It made you get used to things normal people didn't. Like staying awake for days on end or skipping five meals in a week, and, occasionally, waking up in not-so-very-pleasant places.

In fact, it was almost this brief recognition that threw him off; suddenly, he was not kidnapped and completely lost and terrified because _where was Sherlock_ but he was in Afghanistan, tired and surrounded by people and yet more lonely than ever.

John sat up and groaned, hand to his forehead. The world around him spun around him in fuzzy colors.

"Sherlock," he slurred. He slumped, palm on the floor for support. His _head_. God. He just needed to _look_. He just needed to find Sherlock. "Sherlock," he repeated, and this time, it was louder and slightly more clear, and John was nearly proud of himself.

There was a groan from the other corner of the room. John crawled towards the noise. "Sherlock?"

"John." He immediately breathed out a sigh of relief. The drug–whichever one they'd injected him with–was fading now, if only slowly.

"Are you all right?"

There was no reponse.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

"Sherlock, are you all right?"

"...No."

"Okay." John slipped into his doctor voice. "Come here." He made it to Sherlock, rolled him over, then wrapped his wrists around Sherlock's arms. "Can you sit up?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'm going to help you up." Using his arms, he helped prop Sherlock up so he was leaning against the wall. "Are you injured?"

"Yes."

John was struggling. "Where?"

"They hit me with something," Sherlock responded, calmly. His voice sounded numb, blank.

Not the answer to the question he'd asked. "Where?"

"Back of my head." Sherlock's eyes were shut, tight, like he was focusing hard on something. John moved a hand to Sherlock's dark curls, and it came back sticky and covered with red.

"Jesus." He scooted so he was facing the back of Sherlock's head, parting the hair to get a look at the wound. "What did they hit you with?"

"Don't know." Sherlock was trembling.

"Are you okay?" John repeated, for what felt like the millionth time.

"I told you the answer to that question approximately–"

"Okay, okay. Sorry, just checking." John inhaled sharply, thinking about what he had to say. "I think you might be concussed, hard to tell in this lighting... Judging by the wound, I'd say you were hit with a blunt instrument..."

"Baseball bat." Sherlock's voice was monotone.

John's brows furrowed. "You said you didn't know."

Sherlock was mumbling. "...seemed...irrelevant..."

"They might've damaged some nerves," John finished. "Just try to keep your head as still as possible. Are you feeling drowsy, nauseous–"

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock snapped. John opened his mouth to respond–

"I'm fine, I'm fine, _I'm fine_." Sherlock scooted away from him.

"All right. Tell me what's the matter," John demanded, cross. Sherlock averted his gaze, turning his head to the far left, making it clear he did not want to talk to John. "Sherlock!" His head snapped back to face John, who blinked. That was... weird.

"I'm absolutely fine."

"I absolutely do not believe you."

"Really, I am."

"_Sherlock_," John repeated, with a sigh.

"Stop that," Sherlock muttered. He blinked, several times. "Stop... stop saying my name like that," Sherlock snapped, anguish playing across his features for a few moments. John didn't have time to think it over before he responded.

''Look, Sherlock, I hate to break it to you, but we've been kidnapped and..." his voice trailed off, and he placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The other man flinched at the sudden movement and he drew his hand back, letting it fall to his side. John scooted forwards on his knees and started again. "We've been kidnapped, with no clue where we are and no sign of help on its way. Just..." His voice lowered. "Just tell me what's the matter. Okay?"

"Is it?" Sherlock uttered, scowling.

Silence fell between them. "If you don't want to tell me–"

"I'm... John, I–I can't see." Sherlock's voice hitched.

"Sorry?" John blinked. "What was that?"

"I can't see, John. I... I can't see. It's all... it's... _Christ_, it's all _dark_, John." Sherlock's voice came out as a croak, quiet and weak and shaky. John didn't blame him. He was trembling with adrenaline.

John wanted to say something, anything, ask if he was all right despite the fact that he knew the answer. "Since when?"

"Since I woke up. John–"

"It could be temporary," John soothed, putting his hands out in front of him. "It might only be temporary. They probably just damaged some nerves when they hit you."

Sherlock seemed to melt into the wall. "Okay." His voice sounded remarkably small and quiet. _Like Lestrade this morning,_ John thought. It was an unusual thought, given the context.

"Do you have a plan?"

"John, I can't _see_," Sherlock shouted, and, finally, finally, that was when it sank in. Sherlock... Sherlock couldn't _see_. Couldn't see John, or the room where they were kept, couldn't use his eyes to seek out clues from their kidnappers, had no way of deducing their way to escape...

Even if they managed to get out of here, what if it was permanent? How would Sherlock work? It would kill him, John realized. This would kill him.

He swallowed the lump in his throat but it rose right back up.

"John." His name. "I need to you look for me. Be my eyes. Tell me everything you observe–_observe_, not _see_."

John's voice was a hoarse croak. "I don't know how to, Sherlock. I don't know how to be _you_."

"Just look, _really_ look." It was something Sherlock had told him many times, in many different situations, but this was the first time he sounded remotely patient.

"What for?"

"Materials. What are we sitting on? Is there anything you can observe to pinpoint our location?" Sherlock's voice was steady and calm. Remarkable. Now John was the one really panicking–although more for Sherlock's sake.

"Uh..." John squinted into the darkness. "It's big. I'd say a warehouse... there's lots of metal beams, maybe another floor... The paint on the walls is peeling, so old... except it doesn't seem abandoned." He moved towards one of the beams and gingerly touched it. "Everything's been cleaned, recently." He scrubbed his face with his hands. "That's all. Sorry."

"It's a professional job. This warehouse is a private residence, which means our captor has connections. Everything's been cleaned, you say?"

John nodded. A few seconds slipped by, then a few more, then a few minutes, and minutes and minutes and–

"I don't know," Sherlock whispered.

"That's okay. You're doing great." John knelt to match Sherlock's height.

"Someone went to lengths to get us here, John." Sherlock's sounded strained.

"Moriarty?" John guessed. His brow furrowed. Sherlock was lying against the wall now, his face pale and hair messy and matted with his own blood. An overwhelming tidal wave of concern washed over him, but he fought to keep his emotions under control. They needed to focus on getting out.

"John," Sherlock moaned. His eyes flickered closed. "John, I'm..." His voice slurred and he trailed off, staring at things he could not see. "I'm so _tired_." He sounded so confused.

"No, no, don't. Stay awake." John hesitated–shaking him was out of the question–and settled for gripping his shoulder firmly.

"I can't, John–I can't, I can't, I can't..."

Sherlock repeated the words until he couldn't.


End file.
